


A Sign That You're Alive

by PreseaMoon



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreseaMoon/pseuds/PreseaMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Masaomi knows is that when he was with Izaya he was given the pleasure of feeling nothing at all. But Izaya is terrible, so that’s why he’s here. It's a mistake as a whole, and he's made a bigger mistake in assuming Izaya won't know what he's doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sign That You're Alive

**Author's Note:**

> In any case, this was written about a year go, and since I didn’t hate it upon stumbling across it, I decided to touch it up and here we are.
> 
> This was originally part of this scattered mass of text, a chunk of which eventually became _A Toy In Blood_. That said, it may have some similarities to that story, such as underlying intent, but it is wholly unconnected and is its own thing.

If there is a single wisp of a silver lining to the utter train wreck Masaomi’s life has become, it is that he can pinpoint a mistake from miles away. Not that it’s much of a worthwhile skill when he willingly walks from one pitfall to another as if regret is the fuel keeping him from breaking down. 

So he’s well aware going to a club in a seedier area of Ikebukuro with the intention of finding some random stranger to fuck him is a mistake. 

This is a mistake. That’s the only thing Masaomi could think as he got closer and closer to the club, its lights flashing welcomingly, the air surrounding it thick with atmosphere. This is a mistake. He will regret this, but as far as regrets go, it’s undeniably minor. If he can live with what happened to Saki he can live with this too. Or maybe he can’t live with what happened to Saki, and that’s why he made this choice.

All he knows is that when he was with Izaya he was given the pleasure of feeling nothing at all. It was liberating, to be freed from the heavy chains of his guilt, if only for a little while. But being with Izaya made him sick. Everything about Izaya made him feel sick and angry and helpless.

So that’s why he’s here. At some club with a name that’s presumably somewhere but he can’t find it in the middle of the night. People who are certainly not teenagers surround him, and he’s not really looking for someone in his age group anyway. He hopes that doesn’t say anything about him or what Izaya’s done to him.

Masaomi is pretty flirtatious for someone his age, enough to have a decent grasp on what his success rate is. It’s not very high, but that has more to do with him hitting a point where no one took his advances seriously more than anything. But regardless, he had managed to fit in quite a lot of flirting since he moved to Tokyo. He knows how to do it.

Except Masaomi has never hit on guys before. It never occurred to him to bother. Masaomi liked girls. He liked them a lot, everything about them, from their faces to their curves to the way they dressed and styled their hair. He liked the way girls laughed at his jokes and their smiles when he tried to impress them. Even when he was rejected, it just made him feel lighter, giddy. 

With guys, though, he doesn’t really know. Guys are so varied. Not to say that girls aren’t, but Masaomi knows what he’s doing when it comes to girls. He knows what he likes, which is pretty much all encompassing, and he knows what to expect. When he looks at guys, though, he has no clue what to do or say except maybe stammer. There’s dread pricking sharp just beneath the surface.

Izaya doesn't count.

He looks at the various men illuminated by colored lights around him, and can’t picture approaching any of them with one of his stupid, cheesy pick up lines like it’s something he does every day. It’s just not the same; his intent is dirty and selfish.

Finally he decides to wait and see what happens, be the bait, essentially. There’s no reason he has to be the one approaching strangers with the expectation of an illicit tryst. 

The few other teenagers around are easy enough to spot, and he wonders if all of them have the same desperate look about them, if they're all here for the same reason. He watched them be approached by men and women alike, some went off with the strangers and others didn’t, but it all made him feel curiously nervous, like the water he’d waded into had an unexpectedly strong current.

Having guys come up out of nowhere and start hitting on him was actually somewhat unsettling. They were all so much older than him. Not middle-aged or anything, but older than Izaya, who was already considerably older than Masaomi. It wasn’t actually that odd considering the demographic, but it was a little disconcerting that almost exclusively the older men in the establishment approached him. 

Most seemed to be in their later twenties, and a couple were definitely somewhere in their thirties. The first few he made an ass of himself so completely they left before anything meaningful could occur. Which was probably for the best.

Most of them he couldn’t look at without seeing Izaya, even when they didn’t resemble him in the least, in personality or looks. He spoke with the various men easily enough, after a while, and although he lost his tension he never really relaxed. Throughout it all, his own, private Izaya voice offered unpleasantly condescending commentary. Unfortunately, Masaomi knows him well enough for it to be a disturbingly accurate impression.

The man he ends up settling on is as deliberately dissimilar to Izaya as Masaomi could probably hope to get. He’s taller than Izaya by a fair margin, which meant he practically towered over Masaomi, and he’s broader than Izaya but not by much. In short, he looks very much like an adult. His hair is chestnut colored with dyed blond streaks just the right dark shade to subtly complement the brown. His eyes are so dark, in the dim lighting it’s impossible to tell where the color ends and his pupils begin.

He is nothing like Izaya in looks or style, and no one alive is like Izaya in personality, so he’s safe in that regard. Except that whenever the man spoke—and Masaomi made a point to not learn his name or give his own—he kept looking for Izaya, comparing what he said to what Izaya would say, keeping an eye out for mannerisms even a little similar to Izaya’s, hoping, despairing, he couldn't tell. It was seriously messed up.

They didn’t talk too long. Mostly he talked at Masaomi while Masaomi tried to keep from staring at his lips and thinking about the many things they could be doing aside from babbling. Masaomi didn’t process anything the man said; he can’t even be sure if he responded to him at all. His conversational partner either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care and both are unappealing.

It’s kind of confusing, because Masaomi doesn’t think the man came to him with the intent of any sort of lasting relationship. But then, Masaomi has never done something like this before. Perhaps it’s normal.

With confidence Masaomi doesn’t feel, he places his hand on the man’s thigh and gives him a meaningful look. Which is all it takes for the guy to stand up and discreetly lead Masaomi off to dark, emptied corridor.

The entire process was so simple it felt like a joke. 

The worst part is how, in this situation, he can’t tell who’s using whom. Obviously they both are, but he can’t tell who’s in control, which of them is getting the most out of the other. He can’t tell which of them has decided the terms despite having been the one to set them down this path.

And maybe determining any of that is completely inconsequential, but not knowing sets Masaomi on edge. It’s too much to not know.

The corridor is darker than the main room, with darker walls and carpet that bleed into each other. They are well and truly hidden from curious eyes. The lighting is poor, almost desolate as more than one bulb flickered, threatening to go out any moment. Altogether, it’s rather ominous, but Masaomi thought it fit his mood. He doesn’t need a clear look at this guy, anyway, and it’d be best to keep as unidentifiable as possible too.

The man gets on with it, dropping his hands heavily onto Masaomi’s shoulders and pushing him firmly to the wall in a way he shouldn’t with a stranger. He steps close and let his hands wander from Masaomi’s neck to his shoulders to his elbows, unexpectedly gentle. His hands remain just as confident and gentle as he grasps Masaomi’s hips. 

He’s very tall; Masaomi only barely reaches his shoulders. He feels a little trapped but that’s okay.

Masaomi takes long breaths in an attempt to alleviate his racing heart. At this point he can’t tell if he’s excited or nervous, and more than ever he has the feeling this is a terrible, terrible mistake, but he’s not thinking about how badly he’s fucked up, so that's good. Everything else is secondary to that. 

He raises his hands to grab onto the man’s sleeves and stands on his toes to reach for a kiss he can’t reach on his own.

The man’s stubble is rough and uncomfortable against Masaomi’s skin, but it’s different, not like Izaya and he held on to it. Izaya is forceful and quick, domineering. This is slow and explorative, testing the bounds. His tongue slides along Masaomi’s lip and he allows entrance, meeting it confidently and reaching up into it.

One of the man’s hands falls to Masaomi’s inner thigh and slowly worked its way higher and higher, pulling at the fabric of his jeans and smoothing it back. The fingers of his other hand worked loose Masaomi’s belt buckle before hooking his fingers past his waistband, his thumb brushing the button of his jeans, teasing it free.

But then the man slowed to a stop, and he pulled away to look at Masaomi with a perplexed expression. He ran his eyes up and down a few times, frowned. “How old are you?” he asked carefully, with a voice already certain of the answer.

Caught off guard by the question, Masaomi hesitated and answered a beat too late to be believable. “Nineteen.” Even with poor lighting he probably can't pass for that.

The man narrowed his eyes, gauging the answer when he didn’t need to. Both of his hands fell to his sides and he took a step back as if he took issue with Masaomi being a teenager. “How old are you really?”

Masaomi sighs and casts his gaze aside, wondering what the hell had given him away. He doesn't think he looks that obviously young. When he spoke again he made sure to inject an appropriate amount of remorse. “Sixteen.”

A year off, but somehow it sounded better than fifteen. Upon hearing his answer, the man took two large steps away, looking contrite and a little alarmed, as if Masaomi had said thirteen, or maybe twelve, instead. Masaomi isn’t sure what exactly the guy’s taking issue with, however. From the moment he sat down with Masaomi he should have realized the boy he was talking with was just that.

When the man takes another step back it allows a draft sweep by, making Masaomi keenly aware of the lost warmth. He wraps his arms around his middle as he shivered despite the layers of his clothing. He shoots the man as forlorn a look as he can.

How did he somehow attract a person who cared about this sort of thing? How was it Masaomi likely went with the only person to approach him who would care? It just may be the most grossly ironic thing to happen to him all year.

The man sighs heavily, like he didn’t sign up for this but doesn’t want to leave and isn’t totally sure what to do now. He runs a hand through his hair tiredly. “What the hell are you doing at a place like this, kid?” he asked, sounding like he thought Masaomi was somehow his responsibility when he didn’t even know his name.

Masaomi can’t help glaring back heatedly. This is not a conversation they are going to have, absolutely not. “What is anyone here for? Why are you here?” he returned accusatively while taking a step towards the man’s space.

“Fair enough,” the man muttered under his breath, not moving. Not seeing Masaomi as a potential threat. “Still, this isn’t a smart place for a teenager to be, especially not this late at night. How about I take you home,” he suggests kindly. His voice keeps growing softer and softer. Like he thinks Masaomi is an untamed animal.

Masaomi scowls bitterly. He didn’t come here for pity. He’s here to escape his guilt—even if it turned out momentary enough to be near worthless. “If you won’t fuck me I’ll find someone else to do it.” He regrets the crass words as soon as they leave his mouth. It was a desperate and gratuitously revealing thing to say.

“Whoa, hey, kid, don’t be hasty now.” The man carelessly grabs for Masaomi’s wrist and encircles it tightly.

Masaomi stilled and felt an inexplicable spike of fear shoot through his stomach. The man’s hand is so large; his wrist is too small and breakable in its grip. “You’d better let go of my wrist before I break yours.”

The man smiles in an indulgent sort of way. Like he doesn’t think Masaomi could make good on that threat much less attempt it. But he could, effortlessly and painfully, like it was nothing. Although it would be foolish and pointlessly cruel to do so, he had an almost overwhelming urge to do it. For reasons he can’t place, it hurts to be so clearly underestimated like this, to not be taken seriously.

“Listen, how would you like to go somewhere and talk?”

Masaomi takes a quick breath, ready to give a smart reply, but then the man’s words process and his jaw fell agape. “What?”

The man smiles again, this time kinder, more sincere than the expressions most adults direct his way. “You got some shit going on, yeah? Well, sometimes it helps to talk about it. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who doesn’t know you or the situation. What do you say?”

Masaomi frowns, regarding the man suspiciously. He has no reason to think it’s a lie or suspect an ulterior motive, but he still sought either of those relentlessly. There’s not a trace of dishonesty, and Masaomi sincerely wishes that weren’t the case. Not that he wants for this stranger to try pulling one over on him, but, well, it’d be easier to deal with.

An adult who genuinely wants to help him, and for no apparent reason at that, what is the world coming to? 

He doesn’t know why an adult being honest with him is such a horrid thing to consider, but it is. It’s disturbing and unwelcome. He can’t help being on guard, and it only manages to make him feel shitty.

Still, he’s not sure how to respond. He didn’t come here for this, but he doesn’t want to step on this guy’s good will either. He doesn’t know what good talking would do him anymore.

“It looks like you found something that belongs to me.”

Masaomi froze at the unmistakable sound of Izaya’s voice. That man’s unexpected presence is not something Masaomi should ever be surprised at. But he is, and he’s scared, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. 

Izaya’s voice was innocuous as ever, but there was a definite underlying of displeasure to it, a threat.

The man Masaomi is with conspicuously positions himself so that Masaomi is mostly obscured behind him. Is he seriously thinking to defend him, some shitty brat he doesn’t know? It’s sweetly valiant and wrong and so, so stupid of him.

“Who are you?” Masaomi’s defender demands with a voice commanding authority. If anyone but Orihara Izaya were the recipient it could be impressive. Since it is Izaya, though, it’s laughable and a little worrying. 

Izaya could tear this man to pieces without a second thought.

Masaomi isn’t sure spiteful is the right word for it, but Izaya doesn’t just let things go. He makes you into a regretful shell of your former self and then promptly forgets you ever existed. You could pass on the street, and while you cowered in fear, he wouldn’t so much as register your presence. Izaya’s very good at adding insult to injury in the most blasé manner.

Masaomi knows where he stands with Izaya. In fact, he is sometimes literally painfully aware of it. So he has at least a vague idea of what the repercussions for this are. For him, and for the man he chose to go with, the man he recklessly roped into a situation he couldn’t possibly be capable of handling. 

Izaya ignores the man effortlessly, as if he hasn't said a word. He looks through him, straight to Masaomi. “Masaomi, I’m glad you’re alright. I was starting to worry.” He smiles and offers his hand even though Masaomi can’t see it. “Won’t you come with me?”

Masaomi swallows reflexively. He doesn’t move and keeps his breathing still. He feels like an idiot in a horror film. If he doesn’t move, not a muscle, not a breath, not a heartbeat, maybe he’d evaporate into the air and Izaya would leave. As if. Izaya would just capture his particles in a jar.

Masaomi takes a shuddering breath, a poor decision on his part, because as soon as he hears it, the man with him shifts so that his body blocks Izaya’s view entirely. Despite it and his build, he’s a poor shield. He’s more of a glass door that could shatter with one firm slam.

“I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere with you,” the man said firmly. His fists tighten at his side, and they thankfully remain down.

Masaomi can hear the amused smile in Izaya’s voice when he says, knowingly, “Are you afraid of me, Masaomi?”

More like he’s afraid of what Izaya is capable of than him in general.

He’s trapped, again. This time between Izaya and a dark dead-end, which isn’t much different than any other situation he was ever in, actually. The only way out is past Izaya. Meaning there’s no way out that isn’t with Izaya. It could take all night if he let it. Staying hidden like this only delayed the inevitable. 

Masaomi pushes his way past the man to face Izaya. He forced down his emotions and mustered up all the irritation he could. Trying to sound normal but exasperated, he says, “What are you even doing here?” 

This isn’t the sort of place Izaya would ever be normally. The only explanation for his presence is that he followed Masaomi. And isn’t that all sorts of unsettling. Doesn’t he have better things to do than keep disturbingly close tabs on a teenager?

“I was concerned,” Izaya says, “didn’t I mention that? And what about you, didn’t you say you were done with this sort of thing?” Izaya tilts his head, which gives his smile a harsh, razor look. His eyes don’t flicker to the man behind Masaomi at all. “Or did that only apply to me?” 

“You know what I meant,” Masaomi answered sharply.

“Yes, and so do you.”

Masaomi flushes, but he does his best to maintain whatever dignity he thought he had. Silence is almost always the best option when dealing with Izaya. Too bad it’s not an option now. “I’m not going with you.”

“That’s fine. I suppose I’ll just have to go with you, then. Please, lead the way, Masaomi-kun. Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to have me around while you let this stranger fuck you. How disgustingly endearing,” Izaya mocked cheerfully.

The man Masaomi was with growled. “Who the hell do you think you are,” he demanded, outrage thick in his tone.

Izaya sighed a mix of irritation and boredom. His voice was neutral when he finally addressed the stranger, however. “I am Orihara Izaya—is there any reason I should know who you are?”

The man stiffens enough to indicate he’s at least familiar with Izaya’s name and rumors associated with him. Amazingly, he doesn’t stop there. Perhaps he’s made the mistake of judging Izaya based on physical appearance alone. He has the grace to give Masaomi a concerned look, but he didn’t seem to recognize that involving himself further with Masaomi—with Izaya—could easily end with him dead or wishing he was.

He takes a challenging step Izaya’s way, one fist rising in what could easily become a viable threat.

“He’s no one.” Masaomi’s guilt rising like a tidal wave caused him to speak up before the man starts to officially dig his own grave. Izaya might ruin him for this anyway, and he hadn’t even done anything beyond kiss Masaomi. All he did was sit at a stranger’s table.

“He’s clearly not no one if he’s with you,” Izaya responded easily.

Now the man is looking at Masaomi like he’s trying to place his face or name or both. Not that there’s anything to match. Masaomi isn’t anyone important, not even when he led the Yellow Scarves. He’s always been some misguided brat in way over his head.

Masaomi gives the man an apologetic look before walking to Izaya in resignation. “Can we just go, please?”

The man grabs Masaomi’s shoulder, which, aside from halting Masaomi’s progress, earns him a subtle glare from Izaya that flies right by him. “Wait. Just wait a minute. I don’t care who you are—either of you—but you, Orihara Izaya, can’t strong-arm a kid into going with you like this. You can’t do that.”

“That’s an interesting stance to take. Weren’t you just trying to manipulate this kid into leaving with you?” Izaya’s tone is still casual, but he’s leveling an impressively sinister look at the hand still grasping Masaomi’s shoulder at the same time. The dim lighting both enhances and hides the look, so the other man doesn’t seem to notice the very real threat lurking at the edges.

“I was going to take him home,” the man defended with too much insistence when he should have walked away and never looked back.

“That’s not what I heard,” Izaya taunted in a singsong.

When the man’s grip tightens on his shoulder, either out of anger or embarrassment, but enough to make him wince, Masaomi shrugs his way free to put a stop to all this. He puts some distance between them, now closer to Izaya than the stranger, out of arm’s reach, and turns around to face the nameless man. “I’m really sorry. You need to stop.”

That’s probably not a compelling argument, but he doesn’t know how to explain while explaining nothing. There’s not some shorthand available for the situation he’s in.

“I agree.” One of Izaya’s arms slither around Masaomi’s middle while the other crosses Masaomi’s throat. He drops his chin down onto the same shoulder the other man had placed his hand on. He angles his head to press against Masaomi’s. “It’s rude to play so carelessly with something that isn’t yours. And Masaomi is so delicate recently.” His head inclines forward to nuzzle Masaomi’s cheek with his own.

Masaomi hates the way his stomach flutters and heart melts as if Izaya’s said something sweet enough to merit the response. He leans into him of his own volition, finding the warmth of Izaya’s confining arms soothing, of all things. He folds his arms over the arm across his middle and loosely takes hold of the cloth of Izaya’s jacket. 

Masaomi’s peaking guilt abates. Someone so crazy shouldn’t be allowed to be so grounding. Or maybe the problem is with Masaomi. He’s still rebuilding himself, and for some reason he’s letting Izaya slip in whatever pieces he wants along the way.

The man’s glare withers as if he’s finally starting to grasp how fucked up and irreversible a situation the two before him are in. Masaomi isn’t about to be salvaged by a stranger in club.

The man stuffs his hands into his pockets with a scoff and doesn’t look the least bit convincing as he says, “Okay. Fine, I get it. Not my business.”

Izaya doesn’t release him after the man has slunk past them. Instead his fingers dig into Masaomi’s neck and his arm squeezed tighter against his stomach. “This was rather reckless of you. You really are desperate,” Izaya told him lowly. “But maybe not desperate enough.”

“Were you following me?”

“I always know where you are, Masaomi.”

Masaomi frowns. His fingers twist in Izaya’s sleeve, feeling defensive when he has no real reason to be. Izaya is just stating fact. 

Of course Izaya always knows where he is, because Izaya takes weird, special interest in Masaomi. Masaomi will never know the reason why this is, more to the point he really doesn’t want to know. It’s probably terrifying. But it is undeniably nice to feel wanted, even if it is by a violent, crazy psychopath.

Masaomi bows his head. He means to ask what Izaya plans to do about that man, but instead he says, simply, quietly, “I’m tired.”

Izaya laughs noiseless at his ear; lips brush like a kiss. “Then let’s go home.”


End file.
